CHAPTER 1

Elara's POV

I always wondered about him. My father, Julian Vittorio. I didn't know much about him, but I knew his name. That’s all my mom ever told me—his name. Not who he was, not what he looked like, not even why he wasn’t around. It was just... Julian Vittorio. And that was enough, or at least, that’s what she made it seem like.

I used to ask her about him all the time. "Mom, where’s Dad?" I'd say, my voice filled with that innocent curiosity that comes with being a kid. But she would always change the subject. Sometimes, she’d pretend she didn’t hear me, humming or sighing deeply like she didn’t know how to respond. Other times, she’d give me one of those tight smiles that didn’t reach her eyes. The kind of smile that said she wanted to say something, but she couldn’t. Or maybe she just didn’t want to.

I remember the last time I asked her, I was about ten. We were sitting in our tiny kitchen, the one with the cracked tiles and the peeling paint on the cabinets. The smell of burnt toast still lingered in the air, even though the toaster had long since been turned off. It was early, the sunlight barely coming through the blinds. I had just finished eating my cereal, and she was putting the last touches on a half-burnt omelette.

"Mom?" I had asked, kicking my legs under the table. "Where's Dad? When's he coming back?"

She froze for a second, like the question had hit her harder than she expected. I could see her shoulders stiffen before she turned to look at me, her eyes a little too wide, a little too sad. I didn't understand then. I just wanted to know why he wasn’t there.

"Elara..." She paused, setting the spatula down with a clink. "Your father... he’s not coming back." Her voice was soft, but there was something final in the way she said it.

My heart sank. "Why? Did he leave? Did he not want us?" I remember asking the words, feeling the tiny pinch of betrayal but not really understanding it. I was too young to really process the hurt, but I could feel it hanging in the air like smoke.

She bit her lip, looking at me like I was a puzzle she didn’t know how to solve. "Sometimes, people leave, and they don't come back. And sometimes, it’s better that way. Trust me, sweetheart, it’s better that way."

"But... he’s rich, right? Doesn’t he want to help us?" I asked. I’d overheard neighbors gossiping about how his name was all over the news sometimes—Vittorio this, Vittorio that—but they never seemed to say anything good. I didn’t know much, but I figured if he had money, surely he could have helped us. Maybe he just didn’t care enough to.

Her eyes hardened a little, and I saw the old pain flash across her face. "It doesn’t matter, Elara. Money... doesn’t fix everything. And he’s not the kind of person who would help. Trust me on that."

The way she said it made me stop asking. It was like something in her broke when I brought him up. I learned then that some things were off-limits. And maybe, just maybe, it was better to not dig deeper. But as I got older, that question never really stopped eating away at me. Why had he left? And why didn’t Mom ever want to talk about him?

As the years went by, I came to accept that I’d never get answers. It wasn’t like we had a lot of people to talk to. I didn’t have any other family to ask about him. I never met my grandparents. Mom didn’t really have anyone close to her. It was always just the two of us—Mom, Amila, and me. Our little world.

We moved around a lot, mostly because Mom never seemed to be able to hold down a job for too long. The stress of everything wore on her, I could tell. It wasn’t just the money or the bills piling up, though. It was something deeper, something I could never quite understand. Sometimes, late at night, when the lights were off, and she thought I was asleep, I’d hear her on the phone, her voice low and urgent, talking to someone. But I could never make out the words.

I had a lot of questions. Who was he? Why didn’t he want us? What kind of man just disappeared without a word?

---

I didn’t ask those questions anymore, though. Not out loud. I had other things to worry about. Things like paying the rent, or making sure we had enough food for the week. Life had a way of shifting focus when you had to survive. And surviving wasn’t easy.

I was seventeen now, almost an adult, but sometimes I still felt like that little girl, sitting at the kitchen table, trying to understand why my father had never come home.

One afternoon, as I was folding the laundry, Mom came into the living room, her face tight with something I couldn’t place. She had just gotten back from one of her shifts at the diner. Her apron was still on, her hair messy, like she hadn’t had time to fix it.

"Elara," she said, her voice unusually quiet. "We need to talk."

I felt a shiver run down my spine. The way she said it wasn’t like before—when she was just reminding me to do my chores or asking if I had homework. This was different. This felt heavy, like she was about to drop some kind of bombshell.

I set the folded shirt down on the couch and looked up at her. "What’s wrong?"

She sat down next to me, her hands clasped together tightly. "I’ve been thinking about... everything. About you, about me, about your father."

I froze. I hadn’t heard him mentioned in so long. She never talked about him unless it was completely unavoidable. And even then, it was more like a vague reference, something she hoped would pass quickly.

"What about him?" I asked, my voice careful.

"I didn’t want to tell you this before," she started, her voice breaking a little. "But I think it’s time you know. You deserve to know the truth. Your father… he’s not who you think he is."

I stared at her, trying to process the words. "What do you mean?"

Mom closed her eyes for a moment, like she was trying to gather her thoughts. "Julian Vittorio is not just some rich guy who left us. He’s... complicated. He’s dangerous, Elara. He’s not a good person. And I didn’t want you to ever get involved with him."

I blinked. "Dangerous?" I repeated. "What do you mean dangerous? I don’t even know him. How could he be dangerous?"

Mom's eyes were filled with something darker now, something that scared me. "I don’t want you getting caught up in his world. Trust me when I say you’re better off without him. He’s been trouble for a long time, and I don’t want you to get mixed up in it."

I had no idea what she was talking about, but something in her tone made me sit back. My heart was racing. What had he done? What was he involved in? And why didn’t she tell me this sooner?

"Why didn’t you tell me about him, Mom? Why didn’t you warn me about him?"

She sighed, her shoulders slumping in a way that made her look older than she was. "Because I didn’t want to tear you apart, Elara. I didn’t want you to hate me for keeping you away from him. I thought if I just kept you safe, kept you away from all that... you’d never have to know. I thought I could protect you from him."

"But I’m not a kid anymore, Mom," I said softly. "I deserve to know."

She nodded, her lips trembling. "I know. And I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner."

I didn’t know what to say. My mind was spinning. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to shift, but nothing made sense yet.

"Is he… is he still alive?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Mom hesitated before nodding slowly. "Yes, but he’s not the man you think he is. He’s not the kind of person you want to know. Trust me."

I didn’t know what to think. Part of me was angry, angry that she’d kept this from me for so long. But another part of me felt that familiar knot in my stomach. That same feeling I had when I was younger, when I first asked her about him. A feeling that told me there was more to this story than she was letting on.

But I didn’t push her. I didn’t know how. Instead, I just sat there, trying to process everything.